


chaos follows a fox's tracks

by TheElusiveBadger



Series: bury my body (i'll never die) [2]
Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Male Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, F/M, Gen, Historical References, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 09:49:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15603705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheElusiveBadger/pseuds/TheElusiveBadger
Summary: Katherine Pierce is the self-proclaimed 'Originals' expert, but Bonnie's one-hundred percent not down with listening to her advice and hopping in a crowded Camaro to seek out the youngest Original brother for help against Klaus. Especially since aforementioned youngest Original brother is supposed to be taking a Sleeping Beauty rest in the coffins they've currently squirreled away from his older brother. The Savaltores, on the other hand, don't possess two brain cells to rub together and think listening to their ex-girlfriend a marvelous idea.In other words: The one where Klaus doesn't know Kol's walking, Kol wants nothing to do with Mystic Falls drama or his toxic family because he's got too much of his own, and everyone mistakenly thinks their problems will all be solved if everyone else simply bit the dust.





	chaos follows a fox's tracks

**Author's Note:**

> The first story in this story doesn't necessarily need to be read to understand this. But I've had this chapter on my computer for ages and thought, well, might as well post it.

 The lights that split like beacons through the dark, emanating from buildings that reach to the sky higher than the Tower of Babel, and lamp posts that never die from a strong gust of wind never fails to amaze him. Throughout the centuries, all the advances humans made will never be greater than within the last hundred years. Cars, planes, televisions, _computers_ , made the world turn from something grand and mysterious to accessible and finite within seconds. Kol leans with one shoulder against the windowsill of the large, bay window that overlooks New Orleans, and downs the shot of Jack Daniels in his glass, relishing the burn against the back of his throat. A smirk plays against his lips as he watches drunk tourists stumble down the street, trip over broken heels or wax lousy pick-up lines on dull-eyed conquests, and he contemplates joining them for a moment.

His door opens with a whoosh of air, a soft bang, and the feel of a figure close behind him puts a stop to this musing. Rolling his eyes, he doesn’t even bother to look at the intruder, and says, “Any progress?”

 The other man, familiar and distant, all at once, answers with a tone laced with irritation and fatigue. “Nothing. Davina’s done all she can, but whoever the witch using the magic at the bar was, she’s not from the Quarter.” The sound of fabric, leather collapsing under sudden weight, and boots hitting wood, and then he continues, “I can have some Daywalkers track them down.”

Kol shakes his head and rolls the glass idly through his fingers. On the street, a blonde woman lifts her shirt, no bra underneath, and stands on the shoulders of some muscle-bound jarhead, screaming at the top of her lungs. The scream pierces his sensitive hearing, and he turns from the spectacle to study his companion.

“No,” he replies, after a moment of oppressive silence, and then moves to place the empty glass down on the coffee table. His loft apartment is cluttered with books, grimoires collected from lifetimes wandering the continents, a flat screen television in the northwest corner with various DVD box sets, including _Star Wars_ , and a piano with a record player resting on the ebony wood right before the bar that separates the kitchen from the living room. On the marble counters, there are several mortars and pestles, bushels of herbs hanging from the white cabinets, and a fridge that hosts nothing but spell ingredients, liquor, and blood bags for emergency occasions. “We don’t need whispers of this getting back to the covens. Jane-Anne and her sister are proving to be nuisances already. No need to light a fire under their arses.”

He didn’t agree with Marcel’s decision to ban all magic in the Quarter, not the least because he knew what it felt like to be cut off from the power intrinsically inside of you, but the man refused to be budged. As stubborn as his maker, and twice as belligerent when he wants to be, the self-proclaimed King of New Orleans needed to be kept on Kol’s side, lest the Original find himself having to relieve the man of his heart. And, despite their precarious first meeting, or even the decades afterwards wherein Kol blamed the man for breaking poor Rebekah’s heart, the man’s proven useful over the years.

“So, what then? We sit on _our_ collective asses and do nothing?” Marcel asks, giving him a skeptical look. Kol’s smirk widens, and he bends down to grab a zippo off the coffee table, rolls his thumb over it, and sparks fire. He lights the long, white candle he keeps in an ornate fox candle holder, placed on the center of the table, and then steps back, moving to the counter for the half-empty bottle of Hennessy. He pulls down another glass, pours three shots into each, and hands one to Marcel. The man sips at his liquor, culture embedded into him from a young age by Elijah, and Kol runs his middle finger over the rim of his own glass, deep in thought.

“Of course not,” Kol answers. “We do what we’ve been doing. Keep Davina safe and out of sight. The visitors will not interfere with that.” He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, then drags his teeth over the flesh. Beads of his own blood well up, and his stomach rumbles, reminding him that he’s not eaten in hours. He moves back to the window to eye up the tourists, wondering if he’s in the mood for California Barbie or New York Hipster. Outside, the sounds of loud, blaring Lady Gaga music (“Poker Face” if he’s not mistaken), joins with the bellows of debauchery, and that’s when he sees _her_.

Long, pin straight brown hair and clothes so meek and humble she can be nothing but a new version, the sight of her nonetheless causes a deep chuckle to form. Marcel makes a sound of confusion behind him, muttering about pains in his ass and their fickle amusements, but Kol pays him no mind. He watches her as she moves, sober and with intent, through the crowd, two men skulking in the shadows behind her, their faces obscured by the dark and the angle.

“Kol?” he hears, and Marcel’s voice is irritated, as if he’s said his name more than once. “You going to give any input, or should I leave you and your liquor to your serial killer act?”

“Yes,” he replies, “I think you should. And you should go visit Cami while you’re at it. Tell her to prepare the bar for some visitors.”

Marcel leaves with statements of confusion and frustration, and then Kol finishes up his entire stash of cognac and whiskey, three bottles of wine, and four tourists that taste like tequila and herpes. When he settles down with his favorite fleece blanket and his black cat, Loki, to watch a rerun of _The Addam’s Family_ , head swimming but body sated, he focuses not on Morticia Addams relatable philosophy on life, but on the girl.

He’s got four suitcases stashed under the bed and nine safe houses all over the world, but if there’s a doppelganger in New Orleans, Kol finds himself wondering if he’ll ever be able to run fast enough before Nik sniffs her out. First, though, he must find out _what_ she knows, and then decide if disposing of her will keep the beast at bay, or if it’s truly best to shed his loses, as horrible as the thought of leaving his home proves to be. His heart twists.

The cable box clock shines bright red, informing him that it’s half past one, when his phone buzzes like a chainsaw on the coffee table and the name _Davina_ flashes on the screen. He hovers over the accept button, then hovers over the decline, before he lets the ringing run its course. He comforts himself with the knowledge that were it a true emergency, a text with their safe word would have appeared on the screen, instead, rather than the missed call.

He leaves the phone on the table, turns off the television, and stumbles up the ladder towards his large bed, not even bothering to untuck the red, silk sheets, before he passes out to the distant music of youth and Loki’s meows.

 

 

 

Bonnie Bennett despises New Orleans. The heat clings to her as if she’s swimming in a swamp, the food is fattening and greasy, and what’s more, all the witches here are afraid to tap into their nature-given powers because of a _vampire_. She finds herself growing more and more annoyed every minute she stays in this city, and what's more, every second squatting in a small motel room sleeping next to a bed occupied by Damon Salvatore. She’d rather be sleeping next to the Devil, and she desperately wants out.

 “Katherine sent us on a wild goose chase,” Bonnie mutters, stabbing her fork into her fried egg. The yellow yolk runs out of the white surface, floods across the plate, and mixes with the bacon and sogging the wheat toast. Across from her, Elena looks just as miserable, though whether from their four-day failure, or Stefan’s half sustained off-switch and newly discovered revenge trip, she’s not sure. Nor does she really care at the moment. “Accumulated knowledge about the Originals or not, why would she be privier to Klaus’ brother’s whereabouts than _Klaus_?”

Stefan, who sits next to her with all the presence of a looming bat, shrugs and says with a detached tone, “She’s been running from them for five-hundred years. If I was her, I’d GPS all of them so I’d know how far away to be.” His mouth twists. “You know, if I cared.”

Ripper Stefan just loves to point out to all of them that he doesn’t care. It’s getting irritating, especially with the way Elena’s brown eyes dim each time she’s reminded that the man she loves is buried underneath killer instincts and pointy hair, and Damon’s blue eyes grow dark. Stefan’s brother sits next to Elena on the other side of the booth, black t-shirt clinging to him like a second skin, and his arm outstretched behind the brunette girl.

Bonnie rolls her eyes at Damon’s answering nod. Leaning forward, she points out another obvious flaw in trusting Katherine Pierce with anything, even a chipped nail. “Fine,” she concedes, because the elder doppelganger is nothing if not a survivor, “but if the younger brother is so angry at Klaus, why wasn’t he in Mystic Falls offering to kill him instead of Elijah?”

Elena chews her bottom lip. “Elijah told me that all his family’d been neutralized by Klaus ages ago. Stefan met their sister, but none of the rest, so I’m guessing Klaus meant to keep all of them down until Mikael died.” Stefan, who knows the hybrid the best of them, which isn’t well at all, nods. “Elijah didn’t give any indication that he thought any of his family walking around other than Klaus.”

 Damon butts in. “Doesn’t matter. Who cares.” Elena’s eyebrows scrunch and Damon rolls his eyes in that lunatic way he has that decreases the attractiveness of his face. “Think about it. One Original vampire supposed to be in a box, not in the box enjoying nap time. Clearly, Klaus never bothers to open those coffins he lugs around, but it's not a shock. I doubt he’s the maternal type. He certainly wasn't keeping his family up to date on their shots and the latest in vogue.”

 Bonnie hates to admit it, but the man has a point. Klaus is likely under the delusion that his brother is still nestled asleep and unawares in his coffin, not running around dagger-free and blissfully unchained to his anchor of a hybrid half-brother. If _she_ were a part of that family, she’d want to get out of dodge too. Still, she can’t help but continue to argue. “Even if Klaus is unaware that Kol is up and walking, and that’s a big if, we haven’t even heard one whisper of this guy.” She frowns darkly. “Just _Marcel_ ,” she continues, spitting out the name, “who apparently runs this city with an iron-fist. We’re looking for a needle in a pile of needles.”

 “Marcel might know where he is,” Stefan suggests with a lazy shrug, “and besides, _none_ of us knew about the Originals. They’re ghosts.”

Bonnie hadn’t forgotten that detail, but she finds it almost hard to believe after meeting the self-righteous, grandstanding hybrid. The fact that the man hid in the shadows of myths and legends for so long almost makes her laugh, for he seems the epitome of the cackling villain standing by the train tracks boasting his grand plan to her. The difference between him and those cartoons, though, is that Klaus is fully one-hundred percent as intimidating as the legends suggest, and twice as violent and manipulative.

Thus, here they are, seeking the help of another Original, with only the word of Katherine Pierce to back up their search. Her claims that Kol hates his brother might be as truthful as Columbus being the first European on American shores, for all they know, since Elijah’d claimed to hate Klaus as well, but betrayed them the first chance the brothers came face-to-face.

Bonnie can’t say she’s too upset that Elijah’s in a coffin of his own, according to semi-emotionless Stefan. The five coffins, two empty, two occupied by Original brothers, and one sealed shut by magic, are cloaked safely in the witches’ house, but this search is taking way too long for the Bennett witch’s comfort.

 The waitress, a pretty blonde with a sunny smile, stops in front of their table with the check in her hand, unbidden. She’s holding it tightly, like a lifeline, but her eyes are dazed, unsure. Elena looks to her with concern and asks, “Are you alright?”

Bonnie’s utterly not surprised by the words that come out of the woman’s mouth. “The King of New Orleans requests that you meet him for a drink at Rousseau’s.”

 Before any of them can react, Damon leans forward and turns a blinding, charming smile full of white-teeth on the waitress. “And is the King of New Orleans still around?”

  _He’s hoping they can chase the man_ , Bonnie thinks, but that hope is quickly dashed. The waitress shakes herself, looks to the table with confusion, the compulsion done now that it’s served its purpose, and then puts the check down on the table. She leaves, muttering about late-night studying and the worth of college, and then Stefan throws a bunch of tens down on the table. He’s doesn’t bother to look at the bill.

“Finished?” he says as he rises, addressing both Elena and Bonnie. Elena’s pancakes are sodden and half-eaten. Damon’s coffee’s been gone, downed within three seconds of arrival at the booth. “Good.” Stefan is out the door before he’s been given a by-your-leave.

“Need to put him on a leash,” Damon mutters, before he, too, is out the door, following his brother to make sure that a dead body doesn’t end up on the street in broad daylight. Bonnie shoves a piece of bacon into her mouth, while Elena folds a pancake into a taco, and then the two women follow.

None of them have any clue where they’re going, unfamiliar with the city, even Damon, who spent some time here before on several occasions, but apparently not to bum around the current vampire haunts. Finally, Bonnie uses her phone and google maps the location, clicks on the walking directions, convinced that going to the vampire’s requested meeting spot is folly. Stefan watches people with Jack-the-Ripper eyes, Damon watches him with wary ones, and Elena looks around to everyone with worry in her gaze. Bonnie trudges forward, ignoring all her instincts, and hopes that they’re not heading straight from the frying pan into the fire.

The bar is filled with humans. College students buried under piles of books and espresso laced vodka, old bikers with potbellies and trucker hats, whores with low-cut skirts, and a few patrons looking to relax. One, though, leans with his broad back against the bar, dark-skinned and handsome, with that _distinct_ feeling of otherness that leaves Bonnie shivering and cold. It’s the feeling she gets around every vampire, and one that she’ll never be comfortable with. It fades, eventually, muted into the background like static noise, but every time a new one pops up, it reoccurs, flaring as if it’s an old wound reacting to the elements.

A pretty blonde, twenty-something with a kind smile and intelligent eyes, is behind the bar pouring shots. She notices them first when they come through the door and sends a glass down the bar towards the dark-skinned man whose attention seems to be focused on the phone in his hands. Without even missing a beat, the glass hits the man’s bicep, he nods, and then sidles forward, eyes still on the phone, in their direction. Damon and Stefan tense, the former moving in front of Elena, shielding her from view, while the latter moves to the side, watching with narrow eyes.

The handsome vampire smiles, but his eyes are dark. He’s not happy they’re here. “You’re new in the city, so I’ll give you a favor. It’s not in the brochure, but the Quarter is magic free.” He looks to Damon, and then Stefan. “Either of you want to tell me which of them are breaking my rules?” He gestures to Bonnie and Elena.

 _So, this is Marcel_ , Bonnie thinks, taking him in. He’s older than Damon, she figures, but not ancient. How he’s gotten the witches of New Orleans so twisted up into knots, controlling their every move, is a mystery, and one she dearly wishes she had time to figure out, but her hometown is still in the hands of Klaus, and that takes priority.

Damon looks behind them towards the door. “I’m not sure,” he says, turning back to Marcel with a mocking smirk on his face, “But I think it might be the tweedy-looking nerd who just left. You might want to look into Merlin while you’re at it.”

 The door chime signals a new customer behind them. It echoes around the bar with the force of a church bell as Marcel takes a threatening step forward, Damon’s glib attitude clearly grating on his nerves. Bonnie suddenly feels her hair stand on end, and a shiver go down her back, right before she hears a deep chuckle. “Now, now, Marcellus,” an accented voice says from behind her. It’s close, _too close_ , and she inclines her head to see the span of a man’s chest dressed in a button-down blue shirt two inches from her on her right side. “We’re here for a civilized chat. No knocking heads off until dessert.”

 Bonnie swallows, then turns on the balls of her feet, shifting back as she does so, and closer to Stefan. The prickling awareness of vampire floods through her again, but stronger, indicating the power this individual holds; the darkness that wraps around him like a shroud. He’s handsome, too, tall and lithe with dark eyes and dark hair, but there’s something about him that puts her on edge. It’s not the juxtaposition between his impossibly young face, no older than hers, and his ancient eyes, nor is it even the telltale tingle. No, it’s unknown and it unsettles her, because it seems to want to reach out towards him at the same time that it wants to run from him.

 Nor is it his face, resembling Elijah’s with the same nose and the same sloping brow, or even the power that makes her certain who he is when she addresses him. “Kol Mikaelson?” she says. He doesn’t even raise an eyebrow or flinch. No reaction. He might as well be a marble statue. Elena’s eyes widen, while both Damon and Stefan look ready to fight if necessary, and certainly lose.

 Elena steps forward, too, and then asks, “Are you Kol Mikaelson?”

 Forgetting Marcel, forgetting that they’re in a bar full of humans and that the vampire in front of them is potentially a thousand-year old psycho killer, if Katherine’s stories of brutality and mayhem hold any water, they both wait for him to answer with anticipation.

 Kol’s eyes stare to Bonnie for a seeming eternity, before he focuses on Elena. The right side of his mouth curls upward, a slight smirk, dark eyes tracing her features, _familiar_ features, before he nods. “Yes,” he says, “and you would be the—third? —doppelganger. I’d tell you it’s a pleasure to meet you, love, but I’ve never cared about your bloodline, and would rather see the back of you, so if you’ll tell me what you’re doing here and be on your way, I won’t rip your spine out and use it as a violin bow.”

 The words are said with more than a touch of glib, but Bonnie has no doubt he means it. There’s an air of menace around him, like both his brothers, but whereas Elijah’s deeply controlled, hidden under well-pressed suits and a noble stature, she thinks this brother is more like Klaus. Mercurial, volatile, prone to turn on a dime and smile charmingly while he makes bone carvings of his victim’s rib cage. It lends more doubt towards this venture, and she hosts plenty of doubt. Mystic Falls is already overrun by vampires and their drama, the town didn’t need more.

Marcel steps forward, smoothly placing himself next to the Original. He doesn’t hold out a hand, nothing to indicate restraint or overtures of help, but there is something in the way he stands next to Kol that tells Bonnie they’ve known each other a long time. “Cami’s got a table ready for us,” the vampire king says. He looks to Damon and Stefan with a narrow stare, eyes almost slits, and then to Kol. “Be a shame to waste her hard work.”

Kol inclines his head, though the look in his eyes seems reluctant. Bonnie hesitates, torn between the desire to walk out the door and her duty to her friend, but it takes a mere moment before the latter wins out. She follows the two New Orleans vampires into a small, dark corner of the bar with a round table that’s been set for company. It’s deep mahogany, expensive in a place that’s seen better days, and there are four glasses filled with thick, deep red liquid, half-full and deceptively like wine. Next to them, in front of the seats at the edge of the table not blocked by any portion of the wall, are two stained glasses filled with fizzy coke.

Damon looks at the glasses, impressed, as he slides into the seat next to one of the coke places. “Your bartender the tap?” he snarks. Marcel sends him a fierce glare, but never one to be cowed, Damon ignores it. Elena takes her seat next to the blue-eyed man, and Bonnie sits down next to her, with Stefan on her left side. Leaving Marcel and Kol to press themselves into the corner, backs to the wall, though Bonnie knows without her magic to block him the Original can have them as snacks before they even make it a half-inch to the door.

Stefan stares at the two and doesn’t make a move to drink his blood. Nor does Damon, and neither Elena or Bonnie pick up their coke. Kol smirks at them and leans forward, the cuffs of his sleeves pulled up and exposing his well-muscled lower arms. “If I wanted to kill you, poison would be such a drab method.” His smirk widens, and he reaches out with his left index finger to tap on one of the glasses. “If you’re worried about vervain, the amusement I’ll feel watching you two,” he continues, and motions to Damon and Stefan, “choke from it would, no doubt, make some of this tedium worthwhile but I’ve got more pressing concerns than that.”

Marcel takes a sip from his glass, while Kol reaches into the pocket of his black jeans and pulls out a small silver flask. It’s ornate and old, spots from wear and stains upon the surface, but there is a curious design on the bottom right corner. It’s a fox, Bonnie realizes, sitting on all fours with its tail curled protectively around its body. The vampire deftly untwists the cap and pours sharp, strong smelling clear liquid into the blood, then offers it to Stefan and Damon. Both decline.

Never one to shut up when he can make the situation worse, Damon squints, and he spends a second studying Kol’s face before he says, “Have we met?”

One of Kol’s thick eyebrows raise, only slightly, before a curved smile forms. “I’ve met a lot of people. And you don’t particularly stand out.” The smile grows at the look of anger that flashes across Damon’s face, and Bonnie enjoys a brief bit of pleasure at the expression. Then, Kol turns to study Elena with that unnerving look in his dark eyes. “You, love, I’ve seen too much of. It’s been five minutes and I grow impatient. Why are you here?”

Before Damon can put his foot in his mouth again, Stefan steps in. “Klaus,” he says in a tone full of spite, “a little bird told use you hold a grudge.”

Kol inclines his head to the right and rolls his eyes. “Katarina Petrova?” he says in a voice that sounds like a guess but contains all the surety of a genius winning Who Wants to Be A Millionaire. “She’s not as subtle as she thinks she is.”

 Marcel looks confused, but isn’t inclined to speaking up, it seems, about that matter. Instead, he says, “What do you want him to do about it? A lot of people hold a grudge against Klaus.” The way _he_ says it makes it clear to all present he’s included in that club of thousands.

Elena bites her lip. She’s not timid, but the Originals she’s met have all been raging violent dickbags, even Elijah, so she seems to be thinking about her words carefully. “Klaus broke his curse, killed Mikael, and wants to set up home base in Mystic Falls. We’d—” She stops, looks down to her glass of coke as if the carbonated bubbles hold all the answers, before she clears her throat and continues, “prefer that not to happen.”

 Kol’s gone rigid. He’s no longer leaning forward, but instead, he’s sprung back like a bear trap let loose, and his jaw is clenched tight, lips thinned into a knife blade. “Mikael’s dead?” he says in an equally tight voice. “Are you sure about that?”

 Whether or not the broken curse phases him, it’s lost underneath the weight of that news. Bonnie finds herself almost feeling sympathy for him. She’s not too sure about the intricate details of the Originals’ relationship with their father, doesn’t really care to know, but running from a man for a thousand years must tax one’s mental faculties.

Marcel, too, appears interested in the answer. He looks underneath the sweep of his dark lashes to Kol, then to Elena and the two Salvatore brothers, waiting for someone to reply. Bonnie clears her own throat and tells the two vampires there’s no doubt that Mikael is one-hundred percent dead. With that assurance, a smile breaks out on Kol’s face, and he lifts his glass of alcohol-spiked blood, the condolence speech on his lips sarcastic and full of relief. “Ding Dong, the Big Bad—Huntsman is dead.” Then he downs the entire glass as if it’s a shot, adam’s apple bobbing underneath smooth, pale skin.

Marcel sips his drink more sedately. “Try to control your enthusiasm,” he says to Kol. “Preferably outside the Quarter.” Marcel leans forward, less grandly than Kol, but no less threatening. “Still haven’t caught your names.”

 Kol looks bored, then, and it’s clear to Bonnie that he doesn’t care about their names. They could probably be the King and Queen of England and he’d still consider them inconsequential nuisances.

 Stefan once again takes the initiative to speak. He introduces himself, then Damon, pausing on Elena as if reluctant to reveal her identity when her face does all the work for her, and then gets to Bonnie. It’s only when Stefan says her last name that the casual apathy and distaste Kol’s been projecting dissipates, and he looks to her with new eyes. The fascination in his gaze unsettles her more than the distant cruelty.

 “A Bennett,” he says with a voice full of respect. “Been a while.” He inclines his head to her, leaving her to wonder about the layers of that statement, then turns to her three companions. “But I’m rather disinclined to acquiesce to your request.”

Damon scoffs at the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ reference, Elena retreats into silence, while Stefan doesn’t even express shock. “Thought as much,” the younger Salvatore mutters. “Though I have to ask why?” Bonnie wonders if he’s so used to Klaus and Rebekah and their ‘20s friendship that he thinks he can demand answers from all of them, but Kol’s eyes form into slits.

 “And I don’t have to tell you squat,” he whispers darkly. “You’re lucky I’m feeling a spot of generosity. You get to leave this city with your heads still attached to your necks.”

Stefan smirks. _He’s playing with fire_ , Bonnie thinks, and though the vampire’s aware, he continues as if Kol’s threat is hot air. “Yeah, you can kill us,” Stefan agrees, and both Damon and Elena give him a horrified glare, though frustration covers the terror in Damon’s eyes. As Bonnie begins to think that it’s time to get the hell out of this bar, Stefan continues, “But then Klaus will be here by tomorrow night and I think you want that even less.” Stefan grins wickedly. “We wouldn’t come without an insurance policy.”

Bonnie doesn’t point out that Kol can still murder them all and fuck off before Caroline lets Klaus know about his undaggered brother, because the Original points it out with fury dripping from every syllable. Damon’s self-preservation switch appears to be tapped because he looks like he wants to throw an unconscious Stefan over his shoulder and run till they reach the Pacific.

Elena gathers her own courage. Buoyed by Stefan’s gall, she says, “But you’ll still be running. Either way, you’ll lose. If you help us, your brother can never bother you again.”

Marcel’s watching them like a hawk, but the sound of buzzing breaks through the static background noise of the bar patrons, and Bonnie looks to the Original, distinctly aware the call is for him. As if on cue, the bell above the door of the bar rings, indicating entrance, and she watches as the two vampires stiffen subtly, almost unnoticeably, except for the straightening of their shoulders.

 In about forty seconds, Kol’s growls and throws down a napkin with an address written in blood from one of the brothers’ glasses, demanding they meet him there at ten, before he stalks out of the bar. Marcel lingers, tipping the blonde bartender nicely, as Bonnie spots a hundred dollars waded with a rubber band, and then leaves, too. Her attention, though, is fixed on the brunette woman taking over for the blonde behind the bar. She’s staring at the door, anger and hatred in her gaze, her fingers twisting into the loose, bohemian sleeves of her cream blouse, and Bonnie can’t help but wonder what about this woman unnerves the two most powerful vampires in New Orleans.

           

 

 

The moon is a half sliver in the sky, creating shadows on the ground of Lafayette Cemetery, by the time Kol emerges from his playhouse, dagger hidden in the inner pocket of his olive-green jacket. He’s not shocked to see her standing in front of the opposite tomb, her face stony, though her lips are pursed. Without magic, she’s vulnerable, though she holds herself with confidence. “Kol,” she says with a tone of familiarity. She steps forward, her skirt swishing, and then stops as he flashes a bit of fang and veiny eyes. Not enough to scare her, no, not Jane-Anne, but enough to let her know he’s in no mood for games.

“Is there something you want?” he demands. After having his morning ruined by Doppelganger 2.0, the duller version, and the Brothers Bore, he’s on the edge of tearing something in half. Preferably associated with Nik, since this whole mess is centered around that black hole of attention seeker, but given that the twit made a point earlier, he’ll settle for shifty witches stalking him in the cemetery. “Or do you desire to be introduced to your liver, darling?”

For a long moment, he contemplates saying fuck you to Marcel’s rules about tourists and how that keeps local attention from looking too much into New Orleans’ supernatural affairs by painting the cemetery red with a few choice witches of Jane-Anne’s coven and fertilizing the ground with their body parts. Given that Nik’s axed Mikael, the hybrid is the _only_ factor keeping Kol from going on a binge. He’s had nearly one hundred years of restraint—and wouldn’t Elijah be proud if he bothered to look away from their half-brother’s orbit to give two shits about Kol—but five minutes with those four and he’s ready to toss that out the window.

His grip on control’s always been tenuous at best, after all.

“Davina,” Jane-Anne says, which is the wrong thing to say. In two seconds, he’s got her by the throat, her back against the marble of the tomb behind her. He’s pressing just hard enough to warn, not to kill, and feels vicious satisfaction by the panic in her brown eyes. “You know how important she is.”

Kol’s grip tightens. “Yes,” he says, watching her olive skin grow pale. She twitches underneath his hand, air beginning to prick as an issue. “I also know that her mother lived to regret that particular act of _importance_ , what makes you think I won’t subject you to the same fate?”

Tutoring in witchcraft or no, he’s never been one to regret severing ties when he’s been crossed. And Jane-Anne and Maria Claire careened over a line he’d never even dare to when they decided to offer up their own family to the slaughterhouse. Babbling in a straitjacket and unable to access the ancestors is too kind a fate for Maria, but Kol holds some care for Davina’s feelings, and he knows she wouldn’t want her mother rotting six feet under in the boondocks.

Wheezing, she says, “You’re not going to kill me.”

He chuckles and lets her go, watching with dark amusement as she brings her hands to her throat, not pressing, gasps of air a sharp sound echoing through the night. “You overestimate my esteem for your kind.”

Once he thought differently. Once, he’d seen witches as something pure and formidable, not disposable dinner like the rest of the human race. Worshipped them like the Æsir of his childhood, always conscious of the gifts he’d lost the night he died, but the centuries hardened him. Whereas a younger him, one closer to six centuries, not ten, wouldn’t have dared kill a witch or harm them knowingly, he’s come to realize that witches are just as rotten and festering on the inside as humans and vampires. He respects their power, craves it even, desires to nurture it and see it grow, but he’s not blind to the darkness. He’ll kill her and everyone she loves, if necessary, to keep them away from Davina.

 “You overestimate your power, _vampire_ ,” she says with as much spit and verve as she can when she’s still regaining breath. “How long do you think you can keep her hidden? You know what’s going to happen.”

Kol inclines his head and looks to her underneath the shadow of his eyelashes. “Better than those who choose to desecrate their gifts.” He doesn’t dwell on the implications of her words. No, Davina will not suffer such a fate, not while his immortal self still walks the earth. It’s been three weeks, only three, since the Harvest, and he’s still getting texts in the wee hours when the night terrors overtake her. He’s never been the best at comfort, could barely manage it whenever his sister’s heart got broken (though the frequency of _that_ should have meant plenty of practice), but he can’t quite entertain the thought that the girl he once saw pulling up herbs for her mother’s spells is now a traumatized young woman. He wants to see the spark again, the light in her that caused his dead heart to see something bright in this miserable world full of repetition and savagery.

Though, truth be told, he quite abhors the fact that he cares at all.

“Keep to bartending, Jane-Anne,” Kol tells her with a slight smile that’s more of a warning than anything else. “Or you might find yourself seeing Monique before you know it.”

He blurs out of the cemetery, confident that the spell Maria Claire placed on the tomb will keep Jane-Anne from snooping, since she’s never been privy to the secret workings of Kol’s dealings with the Claire family, and finds himself a nice college-aged nerd to snack on. He drains her to the point of almost dead, then lets her slump against the alley wall, giving her a bit of blood, before he makes his way home. He feeds the cat, stashes the dagger away, and then fixes his hair for a meet-up in his favorite district.

 

 

Bonnie figured Kol Mikaelson as more the sex club type than a patron of jazz culture, but the club that they enter in New Orleans Art District is distinctly that. There’re no women grinding on poles for money, no men leering with foul come-ons, and no booze-stained floor. This club reeks of class and age, the bar well-tended, the liquor old and sharp smelling, provided as shots of smooth and unembellished intoxicants, rather than cocktails.

 She looks around and spots Kol sitting in the corner, a glass of something amber in front of him, and his arm outstretched around a dark-haired Indian woman, both their eyes turned to the stage. The girl is watching the performance with critical eyes, a violin case next to her feet, a glass of bourbon in front of her, half-downed. Bonnie, too, lets herself take in the atmosphere.

On the stage there are several musicians holding guitars, trumpets, and even a saxophone, with a grand piano given pride of place in the back corner. A young woman wearing a silver flapper-style gown, hair pinned back against her cheeks in flattering under curls, croons into the microphone. Bonnie listens, drawn into a slight trance by her soothing voice, the lyrics familiar, and it takes her a minute to realize the woman is fine tuning a cover version of “Gangsta’s Paradise,” honing it from its rap beats and replacing it with jazz overtones.

Damon doesn’t even bother to compel the man who bumps into him as they make their way through the crowd. Rather, he grabs the tall bottle of scotch the guy holds and slugs the harsh liquid. Stefan rolls his eyes but grabs the bottle from his brother’s greedy hands and takes a swig himself, then passes it to Elena who waves it off. She, too, is watching the stage, enraptured by the performance. Bonnie takes her hand and draws her over to where the Original is lounging, the two Salvatore brothers following close behind.

 “You’re late,” Kol says the moment they stop in front of the table. There’re no booths, just chairs, so the four of them stand there awkwardly. The older vampire rolls his eyes, then motions to a waiter, who brings them four wooden ones. Similar to earlier that day, Bonnie and Elena are sandwiched in the middle of the brothers. The Indian woman, a human, oddly enough, gives them a look, but doesn’t seem too interested in who they are. Bonnie wonders if she’s compelled.

 There’s a square dish with a mostly consumed po’boy in front of the unintroduced woman, and buffalo wings stacked up high with onion rings piled on the side of the plate in the middle of the table. Bonnie’s stomach grumbles, reminding her that she’s not eaten since breakfast, and she doesn’t blink when Kol shoves the plate at her, motioning for the two humans to eat. She picks up a wing with one hand, grabs a napkin with the other, while Elena does the same, and hopes she’s not making a mistake when she bites into it.

Damon, who’s never been one to make friends, seems to desire needling the Original more than seems strictly necessary. Not for the first time, Bonnie wonders if he has a death wish. “Are you going to turn back into an attic urchin if you don’t make it home before midnight?”

Kol smirks darkly at him, eyes promising violence, but he turns to the human girl next to him rather than answer Damon. “Gia, darling,” he says, just as the song ends and the girl on stage leaves, “Why don’t you go up and join them? Show my guests your talents.”

Gia rolls her eyes, and mutters something low under her breath, but complies. She grabs her case, heels clicking against the floor with a snap, and departs, leaving Kol alone with them. The vampire reaches forward, spins his glass on top of the table four times, then stops it before his drink spills out the top and says, “You do not mention my name.”

Elena’s brow furrows, Stefan appears stoic, while Damon’s face contains its own smirk, but Bonnie grows curious. She understands from the little Katherine’s revealed that Kol’s angry with Klaus and doesn’t blame him, but she wonders, though she’s not sure why she cares, about his relationship with the rest of them. “Done,” Stefan agrees, the unofficial leader of this meeting. “Anything else?”

“Besides not darkening my doorstep again?” Kol says with a deadpan expression on his face. He grabs an onion ring and consumes it faster than Bonnie can blink. “Don’t touch or harm any of the rest of my siblings.”

 _Or else I will hunt you to the ends of the earth and back_ , doesn’t need to be said, because Bonnie can see it in his eyes. There’s a prickling feeling of danger blanketing her. She feels the intense desire to run, and she’s never even felt that around Klaus, who is ten times more terrifying than any enemy she’s met since the Salvatores rolled into town and disrupted their regularly scheduled lives.

Kol’s wearing a green Henley, but despite the clothing choices, he blends into the club seamlessly. Elena and Bonnie with their jeans and American Eagle cotton shirts stand out, as do Damon and Stefan with their plain button downs. On Kol’s right wrist, he’s got a large, bulky watch, and, as Stefan and Damon agree to his second demand, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. They’re strange looking, home rolled, perhaps, and the smoke is tinged green as he puffs and blows the chemicals in. It’s strong smelling, herbal, not bitter, and Bonnie feels her head begin to swim.

Perhaps it is that that makes her say, “How do we know we can trust you?”

Kol laughs. It’s deep and mocking, and he throws his head back as he does so. “You don’t,” he says. “And you shouldn’t. I sure as hell don’t trust you. But remember, little witch, you came to me. Not the other way around.”

“So, it’s settled then?” Elena says. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here now. Bonnie feels the same. She watches the deceptively young vampire and wonders how many victims he’s charmed with his baby face. Studies him as his eyes flick to the club’s patrons, flitting over handsome men and beautiful women with an air of hunger, layered with barely coiled control. He reminds her of Damon with his spiteful humor, but there’s something else there.

She’s sure, though, that she doesn’t want to stick around and find out. Another cover begins to play as the previous woman goes back to the stage, the lyrics familiar. Gia leaves with her violin, but she doesn’t return to the table. She lingers over in an opposite corner, talking with a good looking blonde in an old-fashioned white suit.

Kol shrugs. “Not sure.” Damon, Elena, and Stefan shoot him equal looks of indignation, while Bonnie feels the urge to give him an aneurysm that will last a decade.

“You’re asking me to commit fratricide, darlings,” Kol says in a tone too casual to be anything less than spiteful. “Man’s got to think on that for longer than a glass or three.”

“You’ve already had four,” Damon says. “And we already know we can’t _kill_ him. Katherine said you had a way to keep him down.”

Bonnie wonders how they’ll even accomplish that. Klaus is too paranoid to let any of them near him or his mansion to even find the white oak stake without eagle-eyed supervision. Especially given their possession of his coffins.

Kol doesn’t even try to hide his annoyance. “I’ll have to ask the charming former sacrifice how she managed to acquire that knowledge.” Bonnie figures that meeting will involve torture and, despite her distaste for Katherine, she can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy and hopes the two don’t run into one another anytime soon.

Kol doesn’t bother dismissing them. Like earlier, he simply writes down an address with a time, and then he’s gone. She watches him, eyes lingering on the swing of his long legs as he stalks his way through the crowd to Gia and the blonde man. He inclines his head, whispers in the man’s ear, and then the three disappear through a back door.

Damon sighs. “Well, this is fun. Anyone miss Elijah yet?”

Bonnie agrees, but doesn’t bother answering since the day she admits to being in consensus with Damon Salvatore is the day she dies. However, Elijah’s violence and threats and clear goals are tangible, something that they could count on. Kol’s flightiness, which Bonnie believes to be an act, is volatile. She makes a mental promise to prepare herself for the worst tomorrow, as Stefan puts the napkin into his pocket, before they leave the club, taking the plate of chicken wings with them.

           

 

Kol escorts Gia back to her place after leaving the blonde drained of blood at his hotel room. She’s compelled to forget, given that she’s a local and rather enjoyable, and he knows that a few of Marcel’s more annoying minions follow him to clean up his “messes.” Or so they put it. After she’s gone inside, hair mussed and hickeys dark against her neck and collarbone, he heads to Saint Anne’s.

On the way, he picks up some jambalaya, along with a couple of bottles of Sprite, and waits for her to answer the door of the attic after he knocks. It’s late, and chances are good she’s asleep, but the door opens a few seconds later to reveal her in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt he thinks might be one of his, her brown hair sticking up slightly in the back. The bed is unmade, the sheets askew, and the lights off, but Kol can still see her clearly as he comes in. Her eyes are tired but wide awake and red-rimmed, the tell-tale signs of another nightmare.

She smiles at him and takes the bag of food he hands her. “Smells great. It’s like one in the morning, though. Bit late for dinner.”

Kol shrugs. “Not like I’m going to get fat,” he says, then smiles teasingly. “But if you’re worried I’m sure I can manage eating all of it myself.” He throws his jacket onto a chair, then sprawls into it, throws his legs over one of the arms, his neck resting comfortably against the back of the cushion.

Davina rolls her eyes. “So mature,” she says back, but she puts the still warm food down on the table and gets two plates, along with two forks. They split the meal with comfortable small talk, she regales him with tales of her latest spell practice from his accumulated grimoires, and he tells her about the jazz performance. However, he can still see the slight tremble in her limbs as her fork shakes bringing bits of sausage and seafood to her mouth.

“What was it this time, darling?” he finally asks. Her mouth purses, wobbling, and for a long moment she doesn’t reply.

“My mother,” she answers, and not for the first time he curses Maria Claire. “The way she turned away from me. Didn’t even care as I was brought to slaughter.” She doesn’t cry. Barely sixteen, but her tears have been all used up, dried into a hardness beginning to form her into a formidable woman. But, underneath, the cracks show, the hollows where the truth lies.

Kol nods and doesn’t say anything back. Instead, as he does every time this happens, he moves to put the needle down on the old-fashioned record player he liberated from his playhouse for Davina’s use, and lets the soothing sounds of Louis Armstrong ambient the attic.

He takes her hand, their bodies far enough apart that their hips won’t brush, but close enough that they can feel each other’s breath on skin. She smiles, a sad little flick of her lips, and allows him to lead her around the room, their feet a tangle of movements across the wooden floorboards. Eventually, she comes closer, her head on his shoulder, using him as an anchor, and he allows it. He rests his chin on top of her head and strands of silky brown hair tickle, a flicker of sensation, light and fleeting, with every new sway of their legs and every spin of his arms.

They dance, and he knows that she pushes down the emotional scars and the wounds. The festering pit inside her that longs for revenge, to watch the people eager to see her to slaughter scream and cry and fear. Helps her bury it, fool herself that she’s normal, a teenage girl again, for a few minutes, dancing in an attic, simply beautiful and brilliant. When they’re done, she’ll remember and she’ll long again and hate again and fear again, but for now, she’s content to ignore those feelings.

The food grows cold but neither of them care. After a while, she dances slower, tiring, and he lets go of her. She seats herself again, and when she brings the fork to her lips to consume the congealing stew, her grip is steady.

They talk until the sun comes up. He watches her eyelids flutter with repressed sleep and, when she eventually can’t hold it back anymore, he carries her to the bed, places a pillow underneath her head, and tugs the covers over her. The attic is chilly, even in the fall temperature of Louisiana, and he watches as she shifts in her sleep, her right fist grabs onto the pillow, and her heartbeat slows to a relaxed, gentle rhythm.

Heedless of his own fatigue, he brushes her hair back from her face and leaves, flashing through the streets without care to who might see, and arrives at his family’s old, rundown home turned party house by Marcel mere minutes later.

His mock-nephew is already there, waiting for him, leaning up against one of the staircases, and greets him with a glare. “I think we need to talk.”

 

 

Bonnie never desires to enter a vampire’s home. This doesn’t change the fact that in the past few months she’s found herself not just entering the Salvatore Boarding House, but on her way to the apartment of a thousand-year old remorseless killer at ten-thirty in the morning with no caffeine in her veins.

“Maybe he’ll have coffee, Bon-Bon,” Damon says with a smirk on his face. There’re circles underneath his eyes, giving his pale countenance an even more ghostly appearance. She sneers back to him.

“No doubt laced with O-Neg,” she snaps. Elena nods sympathetically. They’re walking three abreast, Elena next to Damon, with Bonnie balancing alongside the curb as tourists looking for thrills and hangover cures filter the streets around them. Stefan’s ahead, showing little interest in the human girls’ morning sufferings.

Damon shrugs. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” 

Bonnie shoots him a glare hot enough to burn the Devil himself, and picks up her pace, impractical heels clicking against the curbed stone. Her soles ache. After thirty minutes and a Starbucks break, Elena and Bonnie clutch almond milk cappuccinos as Stefan grabs hold of the large, ornate knocker decorated with running foxes of an imposing black door. It mimics the appearance of an old fortress door, while the outside building is less than ornate. It’s a dull, rust maroon old building, bricked and square. Bonnie even thinks it might have been a bunch of old tenements.

They wait. One minute, and then two, but no one answers. Damon lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. “You’d think he’d be home. Or is a thousand-years _too_ old to care about manners anymore?”

“You’re what? One-hundred? I’d say you lost yours rather quickly, darling,” a voice says from behind them. Elena whirls around, eyes wide, as Bonnie’s shoulders immediately draw into a tight line. The vampires, too, grow stiff and turn to see Kol Mikaelson strolling casually up the walkway. He’s close, too close for vampire hearing to fail to sense his approach. Yet the Salvatore Brothers were oblivious. Bonnie pushed down the wary feelings this gave her.

He’s wearing expensive sunglasses, and a pressed, button down cotton shirt. It’s gray, dark and rather plain, a leather jacket, and baggy jeans. There’s nothing here, really, to suggest he’s anything other than a silver-spoon teenage boy meeting up with friends in a neighborhood surrounded by local coffee shops and dance clubs.

He smiles sharply, all teeth, as he opens the door. With a dramatic bow, he lets them in first, “Go in, but try not to get muck on the carpet. Deep cleaning is so expensive.” With a smirk, he winks at Bonnie. “The blood, you know? Ugly color of brown if you let it sit.”

She sends him a disgusted look, and then the stairs, too. They’re long and winding and go up for at least five stories. Kol speeds past her, unbelievably fast, and the door is open by the time she finally reaches the top. It’s a loft, not really the Mikaelson style, and there’s a record player churning out an old song she vaguely recognizes from her Gram’s collection.

 _It’s Been a Long, Long Time_ , she recalls, and takes in Damon’s raised eyebrow at the aesthetic choices of the youngest Mikaelson brother. There’re baseball bats, all signed, stacked up in a holder near a fireplace. Pop culture is scattered around the room in an odd mixture of old and new. The grandstanding piano in the corner is at least three centuries, the record player on top of it. Portraits and paintings on the mantle, and scattering the walls, and then a large collection of rock and hip-hop CDs on a shelf next to several old books.

Stefan goes over to examine the television and its collection of George Lucas-esque entertainment.

Bonnie squints, and then her eyes widen. Not books, she recognizes, but grimoires. She shoots the vampire, whose pouring himself a drink and offering none, a suspicious look. As she does so, she notices the kitchen, and the bushels of herbs, too. More than a passing interest then, she thinks guardedly. The sudden respect in the vampire’s eyes the other night when she was introduced begins to make a queer, eerie sense.

She sits on the couch. “What language is that?” Bonnie asks, looking to etched runes with curiosity and not expecting an answer. They’re carved into his coffee table like emblems, and she feels the urge to run her fingers over the markings.

“Norse,” Kol answers. He throws his jacket to the floor and doesn’t bother to look at them as he goes to his kitchen. “Language of my childhood.”

“Elijah told me your family migrated from Eastern Europe,” Elena says confused.

Kol lets out a chuckle of scorn and reaches up to grab a glass from the topmost shelf in the middle cabinet. His shirt rides up as he does so, exposing a layer of pale skin and muscle. “Elijah lied.” He turns back to them and they all see he’s got an expression of mock pity on his face. “Open a history book, love. Only the Vikings forged ships capable enough to get from point a to point b back then.” A smirk flits across his face. “Or did you think they travelled across the Atlantic by magic? Beam me up Scotty, nature style?”

Elena’s face falls, causing Damon to stand straighter, ready to start punching, but Kol looks almost contrite when he says, “Look, Doppelganger, don’t feel bad. I’m sure he wasn’t lying to you just to lie. Elijah’s so used to making up farces to keep up with Nik’s cloak-and-dagger demands he probably can’t tell what’s what anymore.” He shrugs. “Either that or he’s suffered brain damage. A thousand years of cleaning up after Nik will do that to anyone.”

“Clearly,” Damon says in an overly-loud voice. Kol doesn’t hesitate in sending the blue-eyed vampire a dirty look, and Bonnie doesn’t need to be a genius to figure out that the Original is barely holding himself back from ripping out the other man’s organs and roasting them over a fire.

“Growing your own pot?” Damon continues to snark, gesturing to the herbs than held Bonnie’s attention before. He’s not dumb, no matter how much Bonnie prefers to think his mind was lost with his humanity. He must be aware the plants are far from marijuana.

Kol looks less than amused as he downs a shot of whiskey. There’s ginger in there, too, and he eats that with not even a flinch at the heat. She’s seen Damon and Stefan eat human food. Their taste might be dulled, but she thinks even they would shy away from chomping down pure ginger root. Oddly, she watches his fingers play around the rim of the empty glass with fascination.

“I don’t recall prying an allowed addendum on the contract you signed,” Kol says, his eyes narrowed.

“Contract?” Elena asks with confusion. She’s wringing her hands, standing in the living room like an awkward duck.

Kol straightens and snaps his fingers. “Ahh, yes, right,” he begins as if the four of them were behind the rest of the class. Bonnie gets the distinct feeling that it’s meant to throw them off guard. He reaches into his jean pocket, and smoothly pulls out a large piece of parchment paper and tosses it in Damon’s direction. “Insurance. For both of us.”

Then, he picks up a remote from the counter, and turns on the television.

Damon blinks, his mouth twists into a frown, and he peels open the parchment carefully, fingers on the edge like he’s treating a bomb. Then, he reads aloud, “I, Damon Salvatore, swear to uphold the secrecy—blah blah—on pain of evisceration and desiccation—blah blah—more torture—oh ripping out my eyes? Fun—as promised.” Damon rolls his eyes. “Paranoia must come with the genes.”

Then, he waves it back in Kol’s direction. “You really think a piece of paper is going to make us keep our word?”

Kol’s bent down and out of sight, the sound of drawers opening filling Bonnie’s ears. “Of course not,” Kol replies almost cheerfully. “That’s why it's been spelled by a witch. It’s binding with your signature. The _second_ you betray me—”

He pops back up with a dark, sadistic grin on his handsome, young face. Tossing an olive into his mouth, he waits and then says, “I’ll know.”

Damon swallows. Stefan, with a large sigh, grabs a pen and signs without hesitation. “Just do it. I want to get rid of Klaus as soon as possible.” Then, the younger Salvatore marches down the stairs, barely managing to avoid tripping on a cushioned pet bed. Bonnie’s eyebrows scrunch, but she doesn’t focus on it long. She looks to her friend. Elena looks torn, hesitant to sign, but does so, despite Damon’s warning. With Elena and Stefan down, its mere seconds before Damon, too, signs his name. Then, he shoves the piece of paper towards Bonnie, who reaches out to take it, but before her fingers make contact, Kol intervenes.

“Won’t work on you anyway, love,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand as he folds it. Then, he stuffs the paper into his pocket. “Let’s get you pests out of my house now, aye?”

He turns his back to them. The broad, long lines of his shoulders pull at his shirt as he walks. “I hope you’re not expecting physical help? Because I’m not exactly chomping at the bit for a reunion,” Kol tells them. He goes to the wall, nearest to the ladder leading towards a bed, and Bonnie sees a safe. “So, I’ll not be accompanying you to Podunk.” Placing his palm flat against the metal, he mutters something under his breath, the words foreign and unfamiliar, before he uses his other hand to work the combination. Then, he withdraws a large box, plain wood and unadorned, and hands it to Bonnie. “Here, darling, and be sure to keep it a secret where you acquired it.” Then, he smirks at all of them, holding his arms half-raised. “You can go now.”

The threat behind his words makes it clear that they can leave through the door or the window, but they’ll be leaving all the same, so Damon pulls Elena to the car with no polite goodbyes. Bonnie lingers, eyes studying the vampire, desperate for something, anything, to parcel out this feeling of tug-a-war she has around him, but he stares back, gaze full of ice, and something _more,_ then turns his back to watch the baseball game playing on the flat screen. She leaves, too, and sits in the backseat of the Camaro, Damon next to her, before she opens the box as they drive onto the highway, leaving New Orleans in the dust.

Bonnie gasps, Damon makes a sound of triumph, and even Stefan looks elated when they see what the box holds. The gold dagger, plain as the wood containing it, is innocuous, but they know what it is. The only weapon that’s going to neutralize _Klaus_.

 


End file.
